


Hustling the Wrong Crowd

by belovedhell (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attraction, Hustler!Sam, Lust, M/M, Oneshot, Pool & Billiards, mafia!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/belovedhell
Summary: It was easy hustling people by pretending to be dumb. Sam was a handsome man, thereby people could easily believe that he had no clue how to play billiards. If only those fools knew that Sam was a champ in most sports that involved strategies and concrete thinking.





	Hustling the Wrong Crowd

**Author's Note:**

> Just a simple oneshot. Not planning on continuing this. This idea came into my mind. Enjoy! Another story this weekend. Sorry for errors, too tired to correct. Will do it tomorrow.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are lovely and appreciated.

It was easy hustling people by pretending to be dumb. Sam was a handsome man, thereby people could easily believe that he had no clue how to play billiards. If only those fools knew that Sam was a champ in most sports that involved strategies and concrete thinking.

Sam had a simple routine: lose a few rounds and let the opponent win; then triple the amount and win the final rounds. Thus, making a few hundred dollars a pop. His targets would usually be a few drunks guys or a couple of frat boys acting like they were the shit.

But not today. Sam saw a group of men dressed in a formal manner. All leaning against the pool table and smoking a few cancer sticks. What most drew Sam's attention were the gold chains they were wearing on their chest. Looked like real gold.

Time to do a little acting.

Sam headed towards them and nervously asked, "Can I play? I have some cash." Two guys cocked their heads to him, then they smirked— Sam mentally gagged when he saw that their teeth were yellow and close to rotting. Probably drug addicts.

"How much do you have, kid?" the guy who was letting out a puff of smoke said, marching to Sam.

"A few hundred. Is that enough?" Sam scratched the back of his head.

The man's smirk widened higher. "Perfect. Come join us." They both joined the other guys and then explained what they were going to play. "So what did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking who can put the most balls in the pockets." Sam shrugged. "I'll be stripes."

"Alright, you got yourself a game. Tell you what? We'll let you start," another guy with a tattoo on his neck offered. He started to set up the game and handed Sam a cue stick. "How much are you putting, kid?"

Sam pretended to think, humming a bit before he answered, "I'll put one-fifty if you put a gold chain—"

"Are you bloody fucking nuts?" the third guy snapped. "These are worth more than one-fifty!" He pulled on his gold necklace for empathizing.

"Is okay, Crowley," the tattoo man proclaimed. "Is not like he's going to win anyway."

"You better be right, Benny," Crowley huffed.

Benny nodded, then turned to Sam. "You got yourself a deal, boy." He grabbed his own gold chain and placed on the wooden ledge of the pool table, alongside Sam's money.

Sam was tempted to smirk, but he held back, at least not right now. He was still in his act after all. Next, Sam went first because the other guys took pity on him for not holding the cue stick correctly.

He lost on the first try, then waited his turn, eyeing his opponent's movements. Benny decided to go next. He managed to score a few in the pockets. When he missed a shot, Benny grumbled and moved aside for Sam's turn.

It was go time.

Everyone watched in amazement as Sam began to put the striped balls inside the pockets, easily. As he put the final one in, he put the cue stick and grinned like an idiot. "Wow, that was fun, guys. Great game. I guess beginner's luck," Sam grinned, snatching his cash and the valuable jewelry piece. "Well I better get going."

"You hustled us!" Crowley shouted.

"Hustle is a strong word. I like the term practicing," Sam said, then whirled around to make a run for it, but was caught by the first guy he talked to in the beginning.

"I knew you were up to something," Michael stated.

"Then why the hell didn't you tell us?" Benny inquired. "You were just going to let him steal our stuff?"

"I think the boss would like him." He shrugged.

"That's brilliant," Crowley chirped. "Let's give him to Dean. He'll have fun and hopefully teach this hoodlum a lesson." Sam swallowed when he the word lesson. And who's Dean? Before Sam could ask he was being shoved forward by Michael and Benny.

No, no, no.

Sam should've listened to his dad about hustling in the wrong places. He just never expected a shitty bar to be one of them. Michael was pushing Sam harshly, leading him into a hallway and then in front of a help-open door.

"Our boss will see you now," Benny hissed, then shoved Sam one last time so he could go inside the room. Sam staggered for a moment before he got his balance. He didn't waste any time as he spun around and tried to prevent the other men from slamming the door shut— but it was too late. Now it's locked from the outside. Great.

Quickly, Sam pulled out a paperclip from his pocket and began to fiddle with the door knob. He should be out of here in a few seconds—

"Not only are you a hustler, but you're also a burglar," a voice echoed through the room, prompting Sam to stop his movements. His shoulders tensed and he suddenly felt a cold chill running through his spine. Slowly, Sam turned around to look at the stranger. How did he know? Were their cameras around the bar? Probably.

"I'm not a burglar. I'm just very resourceful," Sam countered. He got a good look at the guy across him: wearing an expensive suit, a silver chain dangling out of his pocket— most likely a pocket watch— and sporting a pinstipe hat. Oh no. Sam recognized that outfit from anywhere... He was in the mafia.

The man, Dean, chuckled and walked towards Sam's way. "You're a funny man."

Sam took a step back until his back hit against the door. Shit. He had nowhere to go.

"I'll give you whatever you want, man. If I had known this was your bar I wouldn't have hit this place," Sam stated, feeling the back of his hair stand up. He was terrified and wanted nothing more but to leave.

"Usually I would skin people like you alive. Why? Because you come into my place and take my people's money, but..." Dean slowly trailed off as he gazed at Sam's body, "you can make it up to me."

Sam gulped, blushing crimson red— He was being objectified into a mere sex object. Usually, he'd tell the person to fuck off, but he couldn't with the man in front of him.

"I-I've never—" Sam stammered.

"No one has ever popped your cherry? Wow, I feel so honored." Dean smirked, and in one stride he was in front of Sam. He placed his hand on the wall, next to Sam's head, then watched the young man squirm. "So what's it going to be? Me? Or my men?"

Sam's face turned pale and his mouth parted in horror. This couldn't be happening. His voice cracked as he cried, "No, please! Anything but that. I'll do whatever you want." And Dean believed him when he saw Sam's eyes watered.

"I was hoping you would..." Dean gently touched his floppy brown hair, and seeing the other man flinch was a treat for him indeed. "How about we take this further into my room?"

Sam merely nodded, still frozen against the wall, even after Dean stepped back.

Dean raised an eyebrow and scoffed, "Don't make this any harder than it has to be." Sam moved away from the wall and padded towards Dean, legs trembling at every step.

His breath hitched as he felt Dean's hand resting on his back, leading him into a dark and cold room.

This was his own fault. Sam should've known better. He could hear his father's words echoing in his mind:  _Be careful who you hustle with, son, it could be the last thing you'd ever do._


End file.
